


(Not a) Terrible Decision

by keroseneSteve



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hero Steve, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Villain Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keroseneSteve/pseuds/keroseneSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Tony have been happily married for years, each unaware that the other plays their worst enemy in the superhero/villain world. When Steve disappears after the death of Captain America, Tony goes looking for his husband, only to find that Tony wasn't the only one keeping secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, I did it again. I wasn't going to post this until I'd finished it, but I gave in to temptation in three days. Sorry for another WIP.
> 
> Prompt here: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=44388431#t44388431

"And you're sure he's legitimately dead?" Tony presses, flipping idly through news channels. They're all covering the same story of Captain America's death, and it's interesting, but rapidly getting old. They could at least have the decency to have different footage from each other. 

"Very sure," the new guy says over the phone, voice oil slick and unpleasantly smug. Tony makes a face. "A guy can't lose that much blood and live, super soldier or not. Trust me."

Tony considers this. There certainly was a lot of blood all over the place. It wasn't a clean fight. "Yeah, I guess so." 

"My armor's still covered in it," the guy boasts, as though walking around covered in a man's blood is something to be proud of. Tony supposes that, with the company he keeps, it is. "I may just set my gauntlets aside and never use them again. 'Snot every day a guy kills Captain goddamn America, yknow?"

"Hmm," Tony agrees, eyes on the screen as the good Captain gets impaled for the public's viewing pleasure yet again. There really is a lot of blood. And a lot of spikes. "You need a new name. Porcupine is just, no." 

"Well, you're Iron Man," the guy who killed the Captain retorts. "You can't make judgements." 

"Ah," Tony says sagely, observing the clench of Captain America's jaw as he dies. On screen, a group of SHIELD agents pick their way through the mass of dead bodies and kneel at his side. The Captain opens his mouth and says something inaudible, something with an O sound and an E sound. He'd like to think it's something pathetic like "help me", but the pixellated mouth doesn't close between syllables, and that rules out the M in "me". He's actually quite curious about the man's last words, considering Tony's been dealing with him for years. Maybe Steve will know -- he's always been better at these sorts of things than Tony. "But I didn't choose my name. The press gave it to me, and that knocks my villain name about a thousand pegs above yours. You waltzed onto the scene, screaming your name. It's stupid." 

Porcupine seems to really consider this. The television shows the agents dodging death by silver spike as the Captain takes his last breath. "Is it too late to change my villain name?"

"Absolutely," Tony snorts. He mutes the TV and stretches. "You broadcasted too much. There's no hope."

"Damn," the guy curses. "Is it possible to, like, upgrade?"

"Upgrade?" Tony echoes, amused. "No. But maybe the League will change your name to Capkiller, since nobody's really been able to so much as incapacitate him." 

"Capkiller," Porcupine repeats, awed. "That's so badass."

Tony snorts. "Sure. Oh, hey," he adds as the SHIELD logo pops up on his screen. "Looks like you really did do it. SHIELD's announcing his death right now." 

"Really?" The guy sounds thrilled. 

"Really," Tony affirms. "I'll see you tomorrow at your initiation, Capkiller. I need food." With that, he hangs up and tosses his phone onto the table to his right. He's going to try to make dinner for Steve tonight, and that means hours of preparation. 

Except, Steve doesn't come home. 

At first, he considers it a good thing: he'd given up after ruining the last of the spaghetti noodles and charring the sauce somehow, instead ordering pizza. As he waited, he imagined Steve coming home, looking exhausted from his day at the construction yard, and sighing fondly at the box on the table. Then he would smile and crack a joke about Tony setting the kitchen on fire. He'd grab paper plates while Tony filled their cups and they'd eat together, playing footsie under the table. 

After that, Tony would clean up the kitchen (again) while Steve hopped in the shower to wash off the day's grime. Just as Tony would finish washing their cups, he'd be swatted with Steve's wet towel and he'd turn to see his husband giggling like an idiot and running bare-assed down the hall. Tony would smile and drop what he was doing to chase after. When he caught up, he'd strip and let himself be tackled onto the bed. They'd fuck, warm and slow, taking the time to enjoy each other, and Steve would call it making love. Then they'd cuddle up together, Tony promising to clean the sheets the next morning, and fall asleep in each other's arms. 

It's more or less what they do every day, and Tony is decidedly unhappy that their routine is being broken for the evening. The clock reads 11:14. He kicks at Steve's chair from his seat across the table. The pizza's probably growing mold already.

"No, it's fine," he bitches passive-agressively to the empty room. "Don't tell your husband of four years when you have to work late. It's not like he'll worry or anything." 

Is it too early to ask Doom to locate Steve? Probably. It's just weird, is all. Steve almost never forgets to call. 

Eventually he gives up. The pizza goes in the fridge, the lights turn off, and a quick note ("Come to bed, jerk") is left on the counter for when his stupid perfect husband comes home. He almost leaves his work phone on the table; thankfully (sort of) he gets a chain text from the League sharing the details of Porcupine's initiation, reminding him that he left the phone out in the open.

Cell phone on silent and tucked between the mattresses, Tony seizes the opportunity to stretch out across the whole bed. He feels like he's supposed to enjoy all the empty space, but really it just feels like what it is: an empty space, where Steve is supposed to be. 

It takes a long time to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //finger guns// Just getting started, friends. Enjoy the show, and please remember to share your thoughts. :)

Tony's not sure when he realized Steve's not going to come home. It could have been when his husband's phone started going straight to voicemail. It could have been after Porcupine's initiation, while Tony held miniscule cucumber sandwiches between his armored fingers with a delicacy that surprised even himself, although he couldn't eat them because of the faceplate. It could even have been when Tony started to dial the construction company Steve worked for, only to to realize he didn't even know the company's name, much less the phone number. But no matter when he realized it, it doesn't really hit him until he's twitching through a panic attack on the kitchen floor and reaching out for support that isn't there. 

Eventually he calms himself down, if you can call hyperventilating until you grey out calming down. He sits up slowly, uncurling from the fetal position he held on the cold tile, and takes a deep breath. His head hits the kitchen drawers and he curses his own stupid decision to get light colored wood for the kitchen. God, it looks terrible. What would the League think, if they knew his identity and frequented his house? 

Ah, who is he kidding. When has he ever given a shit about that sort of thing?

That's how he finds the phone; curled up on the kitchen floor, he just happens to have a perfect view of the space between the bookshelf and the wall by the door. The wall looks odd, and there's a blue light flashing in the dark space, a short distance above the ground. Tony admires how it's been positioned in such a way that, when the lights are off, the glow can't be seen throughout the rest of the house. 

Well, no. First, he tenses up and wonders who had the guts to stick a recording device in his home and if it was someone from the League. He thinks of Porcupine and decides that some of them must be stupid enough. It's when he crawls closer, silent as a man on his hands and knees can be with a kitchen knife tucked into a belt loop, that he realizes the blue flashing is more indicative of a phone than the typical red glare of a bug. Then he admires how well it was hidden.

Then he wonders why Steve would hide it.

It was a good decision, Tony concedes, to hide it there. Tony never cleans, and he certainly never goes near the bookshelf. Nor does he make a habit of crawling around on the kitchen floor. 

But Steve's a construction worker. What does he need with a hidden phone?

And it's clearly been there for a while. Steve had installed a pocket, the exact size of this cell phone. Which, Tony notes with disgust, is a six-year-old brick. 

Ancient Nokia set aside, he shoves the shelf a little further away from the wall -- there's a nerve-wracking moment where the contents wobble dangerously and Tony imagines Steve stopping everything before it can fall -- and takes a closer look. The pocket's clearly been there awhile, nearly as long as the phone, although there are clear signs of duct tape having been used. A closer look at the pocket reveals a charging port inside, explaining how the phone is still alive. There's no dust to indicate how long the phone's been left there...

Tony snatches it up and checks the date of the newest message. 

It's from one Clint Barton, a name Tony finds himself able to connect to a face. He's met Clint, at one of those after work parties the construction company throws when they've fulfilled a contract. He seemed like an okay guy, he supposes. Withdrawn, kinda moody, but easy enough to get along with. Once he got drunk he was the funniest guy in the room. But as far as Tony knows, he's no closer to Steve as any of the other coworkers. So why --?

He reads the text. 

"cap: debrief at HQ, 1500. supe activity on phil-dar." 

It was sent three days ago. 

Tony frowns at the message. Cap? HQ? Supe activity? Phil-dar? Is this some sort of code? 

He pulls up the next message. 

"cap: retrieval from cover at 0800. bring your hard hat for tony." 

That message, from a vaguely familiar 'Phil Coulson', was sent just hours before the one from Clint. It only served to confuse Tony further. Tony never went to Steve's workplace. It would only make sense for the hard hat to be used by Steve himself. 

_cover at 0800_

_bring your hard hat for tony_

Unless Steve wasn't actually using a hard hat at work. After all, he's never actually seen Steve's workplace. And sometimes he comes home covered in more kinds of dirt than one can generally find at a construction site. Not to mention the injuries he gets: random bruising, small cuts and sprained wrists that Steve had always written off as part of the job. However, the more Tony thinks about all the times he'd blindly trusted his husband's word over his own suspicious mind (and why shouldn't he have?), the clearer the picture's starting to become. 

_cap_

_capkiller_

_nobody's really been able to so much as incapacitate him_

_something with an O sound and an E sound_

_Tony_

Tony shoves himself to his feet and staggers over to the kitchen sink to throw up. 

It can't be. 

It _can't._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your love! uvu I hope you continue to enjoy this fic.

Tony decides, as he spits bile and water into the sink, that he shouldn't jump to conclusions. To start, he has no proof that Steve is -- that. It's so far from feasible, anyways. How is it possible for a man to keep that sort of secret for so long? he wonders, until a nasty little Porcupine-like voice reminds him that he's been doing just fine. 

But Steve is different. Steve is honest. Sweet. Kind. Not the type to keep secrets. 

Tony is bitter. Snarky. Cruel. Exactly the type to keep secrets and then some. Nothing without Steve. 

Tony's a fucking supervillain. Not entirely by choice, at first, but he embraces it now. He still can't figure out how he got Steve to begin with; how Steve didn't see the rotting darkness within him, the black smear hiding beneath the mass of scarring across his chest. For the last six years he's just counted himself lucky and never pointed it out. 

 Captain America's a superhero. The good guy. A giant fucking douche, actually, all bullshit outdated views of justice and heroism. He targeted Tony -- Iron Man -- from the start, labeled him as the lowest and worst of the Villain League. Back then it actually hurt, because his actions weren't his own. But after a dozen encounters, two, he grew jaded. Tired. Resentful. The both of them did. And Tony can't pin Steve's gentle smile to the angry warrior he's been after for so long. 

He wonders what he's getting out of all this introspection. A heavier heart, maybe. A sense of conviction, as he assures himself that while it's perfectly reasonable for Tony himself to be a bad guy, Steve isn't Captain America. Tony would know. Tony would recognize the love of his life anywhere. 

Tony... needs proof. 

He makes a call.

**8**

"Ah," says Doctor Doom, idly tapping the stone arm rest of his throne. "Iron Man. What a pleasant surprise." 

"Doom," Tony says, with perhaps a modicum of respect amongst the thinly veiled disgust. Thankfully the armor's speakers alter his voice enough to conceal the rudeness. He's never liked the guy. All he does is sic Doombots on people he doesn't like and wave his hands as he tells people what to do. Somehow all that got him to the top of the League. Tony privately thinks if he'd just been a little hand-wavier when he started this gig he could be where Doom's at now. 

"What is it you require?" Doom asks, patronizing as always. He looks down his stupid metal nose at Tony, a half flight of stairs below him. A nose, on a faceplate. Universe's worst idea. Tony rolls his eyes. 

"It's, ah, personal," Tony answers significantly, twitching his head in the direction of various villainous lurkers around the room.

"Indeed." Doom waves a hand; all motion in the room comes to a halt as everyone's eyes go to the throne. "Leave me," he says without raising his voice. They all drop what they're doing, some grumbling about it, and file out of the room. The massive double doors slam shut. 

There's a moment of silence. 

"How is Steven, by the by?" 

Tony scowls up at him. "You know that's what I'm here about."

"I do," Doom acknowledges, and Tony's surprised at how often he's been addressing himself in first person. Usually he's cracked a "You insult Doom" or "Doom agrees" or something by now. "Is it about the serum?"

"The serum?" Tony repeats, startled. What--? "No, it's not. Should it be?" he adds with some suspicion. 

The other man just shrugs, a lengthy looking process under all that armor. "One would hope it hasn't begun to fail, seeing as the serum belonged to Erskine himself." 

Tony stiffens, a frisson of panic sparking. "Fail?" he repeats, a couple octaves higher than normal. "Is that a possibility?"

"Calm yourself, Iron Man." Doom straightens in his seat. "It shouldn't. Erskine's work is legendary, and no longer in existence. As you well know, the last two vials were gifted to you in good faith."

Good faith, meaning a lifetime of villainous servitude. Jackass. 

"I didn't come here to talk about the serum," Tony says to change the subject, uneasy as he is. "Last I checked, it was working fine." 

"Then what have you disrupted my day for?"

Tony swallows. This could go two ways, and he doesn't like either one of them. But it's worth it. "I need you to find him."

Doom's head tilts. "Steven?" 

"... Yes."

"Have you lost your husband, Tony Stark?" 

"Look," Tony grits his teeth behind the faceplate, "a few days ago, he didn't come home when he was supposed to, and he hasn't been home since. I'm -- worried."

"A few days ago," muses Doom. "Would this have happened, perhaps, the day Captain America fell?"

Tony jerks back. "That has nothing to do with it," he spits. "I just need to find him."

"It wouldn't be so far off the mark, would it?" Doom says. "Perhaps you should consider the possibility." He shifts forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "Very well. I will activate the tracers I left after examining the serum. Supposing it hasn't broken them down," he says as an afterthought. "It has been nearly six years." 

Tony doesn't want to say anything like "thank you" or "that'd be great", something that warrants a response, or worse, a debt. 

"In exchange," of course, "you must attack Stark Industries and steal the most recent technology you've designed."

"Done."

"You will bring that technology to Doom." Ah, there it is. 

"I will," Tony promises. 

"So quick to betray your own company," the other man says thoughtfully. "What else would you do for your Steven?" 

"Just find him," Tony says shortly. He himself doesn't know his own limits. What would he do for Steve? What wouldn't he do? 

It scares him when he can't think of anything. 

"You have my word," Doom says solemnly. "Dismissed."

**8**

The heist goes well. Tony's sorry about the eleven deaths -- sort of -- but he knows he'll never regret it. Not when it comes to Steve. 

He looks down at the box of miniaturized heat-seeking missiles tucked under his arm and wonders. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soooo much for your kind words and thoughtful responses! I dance around in childish glee every time I get them. uvu It'd be embarrassing if I weren't so damn touched.

" _Steve!"_

_He'd sort of hoped calling his name would work, but the coughing and hacking doesn't stop; instead, Steve raises his hand and shakes it a little to show he heard. Tony goes from a jog to a run, skidding to an unsafe stop by the heaving man's side. Rainwater soaks through his shoes and weighs down the bottoms of his jeans, pools of water from the storm an hour before still slicking the streets and sidewalks. "God, Steve, are you alright?"_

_"'M -- fine," Steve gasps, sucking in lungfuls of air as the fit subsides. "H'wre you?"_

_"Jesus." Tony shakes his head in dismay. "I'm fine, of course, I have a coat and umbrella. This is the shittiest weather to be trying the summer hipster look in, Steve."_

_"Not a hipster," replies Steve, scowling. Even so, he adjusts his cap and the straps of his coveralls. "I'm a construction worker."_

_"What?" Tony gapes, disbelieving. "Oh god, that is the worst job for you! Steve, you're a ninety-pound asthmatic! You're going to get yourself killed."_

_"Won't," mutters Steve, then, louder, "I'm a hundred and twelve pounds, Tony."_

_"Yeah, and six foot three," Tony snaps. "You're a stick. A sickly stick that could get knocked over by a stray feather. You should work on that."_

_"I am," Steve says indignantly. "Can't you tell?" He flexes tellingly. Tony squints, only half joking._

_"Nothing," he says at last. Steve's scowl deepens._

_"Well I am," he says. "And soon I'll be able to pick you up and lug you around the way you do to me."_

_Tony snorts. "Sure, Steve. I look forward to the day."_

_"Just remember," Steve warns, "I'm a solid six inches taller than you."_

_"Are not," Tony sniffs. "Four. Five at the most."_

_Steve mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "whatever you say, short stack." The other man narrows his eyes._

_"Get out of that puddle," he says finally, tugging on his arm. "Unless you're trying to get sick, which, if you are? No need to search out a puddle. Just stay outside in this weather for fifteen minutes or so without a jacket -- oh wait."_

_Steve levels him an unimpressed look. "Outside our cafe."_

_Tony nods. "True," he allows with a grin. "So, what now? Gonna open the door or do I have to sweep you off your feet, literally?"_

_"With all your manly muscles?" the blond retorts with heavy (mock) skepticism._

_"Hey," Tony says, putting a hand over his heart as though wounded. "I will have you know, I am an accomplished engineer, and with engineering comes plenty of hard work."_

_"I dunno," Steve says, raising an eyebrow. "So far all the engineering work I've seen is running your mouth and waving your hands."_

_"Har har." Tony rolls his eyes. "You're a regular comedian. Talk about setting the mood."_

_"I hear I'm good at that," says Steve with something suspiciously close to a leer. Tony starts, eyebrows shooting up._

_"... that, okay, I'll give you that one."_

_Steve opens his mouth to reply but gets rather rudely interrupted by a series of sneezes, ones that trigger another coughing fit where Tony stands helplessly by his side until he remembers the spare inhaler the blond told him to keep in his bag._

_"Well," he says once it's over, "I'd tell you off about the jacket but I think you're learning your lesson the hard way."_

_Steve sniffles. "Uh huh." Tony carefully tucks away the inhaler as he moves to the entrance and holds the door open. "Ladies first," he says, grinning. Tony scoffs but walks in anyways._

_"You're ridiculous," he starts to say, but Steve interrupts him with a kiss and a statement: "You know I love you."_

_And all Tony manages in reply is a soft, pleased little sound as Steve ducks into the warm room after him_.

"Iron Man!"

Tony nearly jumps a foot in the air, hindered only by the suit as he jerks and jars his shoulders with unmoving padded metal and circuitry. He swears quietly before turning around to face the vaguely familiar voice.

"Capkiller!" he says brightly, swallowing back his frustration and longing as he sets eyes on the new recruit. "Or is it still Porcupine?"

Porcupine shrugs, gunmetal armor reflecting harsh flourescent lights as it moves. "I'm still officially a spiny rodent, but my secondary title is Capkiller. Which is nearly as good."

"Hey, good for you," says Tony, wanting desperately to be anywhere but here, especially considering what he's waiting for.

"So what are you hanging around for?" asks Porcupine the Capkiller, interested. The armor covers the upper half of his face and most of his body, some sort of black chain mail showing between metal plates. There are dozens of tiny holes scattered across the plates -- on a good day, Tony would want nothing more than to figure out how he managed to summon foot-long metal quills from the skintight armor. "Big name villain and all, wandering the Doctor's halls. Don't you have your own wing of the castle?"

"I do," Tony agrees absently. Does the newbie think that carefully cultivated stubble looks good? It really ruins the smooth look of the armor. "Speaking of, you should drop by sometime. Show me your quills. I've got some test dummies and things modeled after those dogs SHIELD keeps around."

"Really?" He grins, revealing nicotine-stained teeth with a wide smile. His deep brown eyes gleam through the eye slits of his helmet. Tony wonders why he decided to join the biggest group of mass murderers and thieves-for-hire on the planet. "That'd be great! When?"

Tony waves a hand. "I'll call you."

Somehow, he perks up even more. Kind of like a puppy when you tell him he gets a treat for good behaviour. It almost makes Tony not want to give him a proverbial kick in the ribs later, but he knows at some point he'll have to. Such is life. It's a shame the guy chose Iron Man as the subject of his hero (??) worship. Idolatry, perhaps. Poor kid.

Just then, the doors to Doom's throne room swing open with a (melodramatic, overly maintained) menacing creak. The space inside is dark.

"Come forth, Iron Man," Doom's voice booms. "We have important matters to discuss."

"Bye," Tony tosses to the new guy before obeying the commands given to him.

The doors slam shut behind him, leaving him in total darkness the HUD stuggles to compensate for. He really hates Doom's flare for dramatics when faced with new recruits.

One beam of light flicks on, shining down on the figure of Doctor Doom, slouched artfully on his throne. He waves a metal hand in a "come hither" gesture.

Tony obeys silently.

"Your missiles were few," Doom finally states. Tony shrugs.

"You asked for the newest stuff I've been working on," he answers. "That was it."

"You'll be making more of those for me." An idle command, almost nonchalant if not for the note of severity, the do-not-argue undertone that helped win him his throne.

"Fine," says Tony, not bothering to put away the sour tone. "Did you fulfill your end of the deal?"

"I did." Another hand wave, and a Doombot dressed exactly the same as the man himself clomps up to Tony's armor. It offers him an object the approximate shape and size of a remote control. "This is your tracker," he continued as Tony accepts it. "It will tell you precisely on a map his location. This is a live feed."

Tony examines the tracking device. It's ninety percent screen, ten percent buttons for adjustment. He fiddles a little, allowing the map to zoom in close enough that he can read street names. The street names of an area in Brooklyn.

"Do remember, Iron Man," Doom drawls, "that I have this same technology, and should you push too far I will not hesitate to, say, pay a visit."

Tony grits his teeth. "I'll start your missiles tomorrow," he promises.

"Excellent." Yet another hand wave. "You may go."

Tony hurries out of the League HQ, fiddling with the device as he goes. It narrows further and further until he can see the shapes of buildings, the place marks of trees and sidewalks.

The first thing he sees, and registers with such relief his knees might have buckled if not for the suit, is that the blue dot that represents Steve is moving. It moves from one end of what must be a room to another, surrounded by grey dots that represent people not registered in the system. Tony thinks he might cry, until he realizes something else and feels his heart stop.

That blue dot is moving around in a registered SHIELD facility.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta admit, I'm pretty nervous about this one! So here's this. I'm not sure if i said it yet, but this fic is a whole wall of firsts for me. I've never written a relationship, I've never written character death, I've never done anything that could be labeled tragic, I've never written angst of this caliber, I've never written a hospital scene, I've never written bad guys, and I certainly have never written what I'm posting now. So if it's terrible, I am so, SO SORRY. 
> 
> If you want to pretend you never read it, please tell me so I, too, can pretend it never happened (aka delete or rewrite). If you think I should consider it canon in relation to this fic, PLEASE TELL ME. I do need to know! It determines a lot about this fic's future.
> 
> Anyways... enjoy (or don't. Oh god).

"Steve. C'mon, man, wake up." 

All at once, there's sound and light and movement and everything aches, so sudden and sharp he nearly chokes on air. But he hasn't done that in years, and he regains control quickly. 

"Steve?"

His vision focuses. 

Clint is seated on the edge of the bed -- a SHIELD hospital bed, that Steve himself appears to be stationed in -- peering down at him with something like worry. When he knows he has Steve's attention, he smiles. 

"Hey, man," he says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Your vitals were all over the place for a second there." He pauses. "Nightmare?" 

Steve shrugs. "No, not really," he replies. "I was only thinking -- uh, how long have I been here?"

Clint wiggles one hand in a seesawing motion. "Uhhhh, five days, maybe six." 

"Six days!" Steve echoes, alarmed. The heart monitor at his side picks up as he tries to lever himself into a sitting position. What feels like a dozen stab wounds immediately make themselves known and he allows Clint to push him back into the pillows, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Shit," he manages. 

"No moving for another day or so," Clint admonishes, expression creasing into concern. "Doc's orders." 

"Okay," says Steve, "tell me what happened." 

"Uhh." Clint leans back again, staring at the ceiling. "There was some new hotshot supervillain wrecking shit. Phil called you in with a bunch of agents. You went down. Now we're here."

"The villain?"

"Got away."

"The other agents?"

"In one piece."

"Have you contacted Tony?"

"Uh." Clint shifts awkwardly, face twisted. "Well..."

Steve jerks back. "He has called, hasn't he? It's not like him to --"

"No, no," Clint rushes to amend, "he's definitely called. Several times. So many times. It's just that --"

"It's just that your husband called," says another voice from the doorway. Natasha leans on the jamb, arms crossed, brows furrowed. She's in her uniform. "And Clint fucked up." 

Steve feels himself tense, despite how his muscles burn as they pull taut. "What happened?"

"He made a call," she explains, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and sliding into a chair by the heart monitor. "Or rather, he took one, and wasn't prepared for what happened. You have to realize, Cap, that it's done already. There's no turning back."

There's a small bubble of panic in his gut, quickly expanding as she continues to avoid the truth. "What," he grits out, "happened."

"Tony called," says Natasha, watching him carefully, "from your work phone." 

He freezes. "What," he breathes.

She frowns. "He called from your work phone. Said he had found it while cleaning and recognizes Clint's name."

Steve somehow finds it in him to laugh. "Tony?" he chokes. "Cleaning?"

"Said he was bored out of his mind waiting for you," and everything about Clint is subdued now -- body language, tone of voice, eyes locked on the bed sheet. "He, he asked how you were."

"Steve," Natasha breaks in, voice impossibly gentle, "he thinks you're dead." 

He slowly shakes his head. "No," is what comes out of his mouth, staring straight ahead, "he has no reason to think that. Why would he think that? I only --"

"I told him," Clint mumbles, and Steve's heart stops. 

"Why?" he asks, voice strangely neutral. The two agents look at each other, nervous tells screaming at Steve's senses. They don't know how to break this to him, but he knows. He knows exactly what's going to come out of their mouths.

"We crushed a building set for demolition," says Natasha, still using that soft tone, the kind one uses when speaking to a scared child or wounded animal. "When Tony asked after you, Clint said you were inside. That we're still looking for your body. That -- that no one else survived." 

He repeats, "why?"

"I panicked," Clint admits, voice hollow. "I didn't -- I wasn't expecting him to call my phone, and the world knows Captain America is dead, so I said you're dead."

"I am not Captain America," he says, and now his voice is loud. He's angry, he thinks, but feels strangely detached. He still hasn't quite worked out what they're telling him. "I am Steve Rogers-Stark, and I am a man with a life outside of SHIELD. I have a home, I have a lover, and you just -- you just took that from me. Because you didn't think." 

"Steve, I'm so --"

"No, you're not," he talks over Clint's apology, and he'll feel horrible about this later but he's feeling worse right now, and he can't be bothered to give a single fuck when he just learned that he won't be seeing Tony again. That Tony thinks he's dead. He's going to be devastated. Steve wants to get off this stupid mattress and go back to his own, wants to grab his husband and kiss him and reassure him and promise he's okay, that he's not going to leave him again, that he's sorry -- "This works out well for SHIELD, doesn't it? Now I don't have a life, I don't have outside connections. I can be just like you two. Nothing outside of this organization. Nothing without your superiors to keep you in line. I was happy. I was -- we were talking about having a family. And now I can't. Now I'm nothing, too." 

There's a long moment of silence, broken only by Steve's ragged breathing and the beeping of the heart monitor. He's staring down at the dark splotches on the white sheet covering his body. Everything hurts. 

"Phil's going to come by to talk with you about your last will and testament," Natasha says finally. She gets up, and so does the weight at the foot of the bed. She places a phone -- his personal phone, the one that Tony designed solely for him -- onto his lap. "Here's your phone. Communication has been disabled, but you can listen to your voicemails and read your texts. Tony -- he called a lot. 

"And for what it's worth? I am sorry."

The door shuts behind the two of them, and Steve closes his eyes. His fingers move automatically, unlocking his phone and accessing his voicemail box. His thumb hovers over the "listen" button; he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, so much that it hurts. 

He presses the button.

**Author's Note:**

> Please share your thoughts. uvu I'd really appreciate it.


End file.
